


i found a love (for me)

by gallavichsecurity



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Season/Series 10, Slow Dancing, Wedding Fluff, happy anniversary to these two goons :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallavichsecurity/pseuds/gallavichsecurity
Summary: Watching him closely for another moment, Ian didn’t speak. Mickey made the conscious effort not to bristle under the scrutiny, because itwasn’t a big fucking dealand he really didn’t need Ian to make it out to be one.He thanked about a decade of silently reading each other when Ian’s gaze finally flicked down to his drink, drawing away from Mickey, as he took another sip.“That might just be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he commented lightly, offhand, like it didn’t actually mean a million things. Like it didn’t meanI understandandI love youandchallenge accepted. Because Ian was absolutely the person to hear Mickey say he’s never slow danced, and take it as a gauntlet being thrown down.-----Or pre-wedding domestic fluff
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 21
Kudos: 193





	i found a love (for me)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in about 40 minutes flat skljalsjdalks so it's super dialogue heavy 😶 what can ya do

“No, you’re doing it wrong. Here, you just gotta—”

“—that’s _literally_ what I’m doing _,_ Gallagher—“

“—move this one fir— _ow!_ ” Ian reared back, hopping on one foot as his face scrunched up. He shot Mickey a look, pained and a little exasperated. “Watch it with the broken leg, maybe?”

Mickey huffed a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly. This was useless. Pointless and stupid and embarrassing. He reached for Ian’s phone, balanced on the edge of the coffee table, and paused the cheesy music Ian had playing. “This is useless,” he deadpanned, because they were _communicating,_ now. “Slow dancing is stupid. ‘Sides, what do I wanna have everyone starin’ at us like that for, anyways?”

Ian rolled his eyes, leaning back against the arm of the couch to take the weight off of his leg. “We’re getting _married_ ,” he answered, too-pleased and a little amused. “The entire day is about having everyone stare at us. It’s an intentional spectacle, Mick.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. That wasn’t the _point._ Still, he crossed towards Ian, tugging him away from the arm and pushing him gently down to the actual seat of the couch. “Put your leg up,” he instructed, before turning to retreat towards the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

“Just a coke,” Ian’s voice trailed him, and Mickey shook his head. Why anyone would want to do this shit sober was beyond him.

He grabbed a beer and a coke from the fridge, and then a bag of frozen corn from the freezer, before popping the bottle open on the edge of the counter. He let the cap fall to the floor somewhere with a _cling._

Crossing back into the living room, he took a long swig, downing half the bottle in one go. Ian peered at him closely from the couch, leg propped up on the cushion beside him. “Thought this is what you wanted,” he said, half like a question. “You know — the big, traditional kind of wedding. With the flowers and the cake and the first dance.”

“It is,” Mickey assured, passing over the coke and setting his own drink down. “If we’re doing this shit, we’re doing it. All-in, man.” He slowly lifted Ian’s leg up before settling down on the couch beside him, gently easing the injured limb back down to his lap. Carefully, trying not to jostle him too much, he undid the buckles of the boot and slid it off. “Think we deserve a little bit of celebrating, don’t you?”

He cautioned a glance up quickly, only to see Ian watching him with that stupid, crooked little smile, eyes all squinty with the edges crinkled. He was doing that a lot, lately, at the weirdest moments — when Mickey was pouring coffee, or they were making lunch for Liam and Franny, or while they were brushing their teeth, getting gross toothpaste foam all over the damn place. Ever since the bar, where Ian nearly broke his parole for fighting and they ended the night as _fiancés,_ he’s just been… smiling at him. All the time. It made Mickey twitchy.

“Of course I do,” Ian agreed, and then raised an eyebrow, shifting slightly as Mickey set the bag of frozen corn over his pressure-wrapped leg. “Thought most of it was just to rub it in your dad’s face, though.”

Mickey pressed his lips tight. Maybe that’s what it started as — the big, over-the-top gay wedding of Terry Milkovich’s nightmares — but it had evolved in the weeks that they’ve been planning it. And he’s never been into the outward, sappy performances of love, but. He couldn’t deny that the idea of a wedding — a real wedding, just for them — felt like some kind of fuckin’ fairy tale. Like something unattainable and beautiful that he’d never dared hope to have. It made him feel… young, almost. Giddy and light. Like a kid who's crush liked him back.

Ian knew that, though. He knew by now that it wasn’t about Terry at all. Knew that it was so much more. “Stop sayin’ stupid shit,” he scolded, without any heat. “You know that ain’t what this is about.”

And Ian just watched him again, for a beat, still smiling all the way through his eyes. He dropped his eyes, looking down at the coke as he popped the can open. “Yeah,” he agreed, but it was quieter, and sincere. “Yeah, I know.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m ready to look like an idiot in front of your whole fuckin’ family, though.”

Ian nudged Mickey with his heel. “I think it’s a little too late for that,” he teased. “Think you crossed that bridge a long time ago.”

Mickey flipped him off, but he couldn’t help but huff a breath, as he did. Ian was right, of course. Still. “I dunno, man. The dancin’ thing is just — really fucking gay.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “We’re really fucking gay.”

“I’ve never danced like that before in my life.”

Ian blinked at him. Tilted his head a little. The smile wavered, just a little bit, and Mickey hated it. “Seriously?”

Dropping his gaze, Mickey shifted under the weight of Ian’s leg. He hadn’t meant to say it, entirely, and he certainly hadn’t meant for it to come out as downtrodden as it did. It wasn’t something he was _sad_ about, necessarily, but saying it aloud made it seem like it. It was just a fact. Just a part of his existence. “You say that like I haven’t been chasin’ after your freckly ass since we were in high school, man,” he deflected, trying to ease away that weird tension growing in Ian’s forehead. “Who the fuck would I be dancing with, besides you?”

Watching him closely for another moment, Ian didn’t speak. Mickey made the conscious effort not to bristle under the scrutiny, because it _wasn’t a big fucking deal_ and he really didn’t need Ian to make it out to be one.

He thanked about a decade of silently reading each other when Ian’s gaze finally flicked down to his coke, drawing away from Mickey, as he took another sip.

“That might just be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he commented lightly, offhand, like it didn’t actually mean a million things. Like it didn’t mean _I understand_ and _I love you_ and _challenge accepted._ Because Ian was absolutely the person to hear Mickey say he’s never slow danced, and take it as a gauntlet being thrown down.

“Aye, fuck you,” Mickey jibed, but the relief was right there in his voice, plain as day. They didn’t need to talk about it — about certain parts of themselves — to understand. They were getting better at learning when to push and when to let things lie, and Mickey was grateful that this was the latter. “I’m always romantic.”

Ian smiled down at his coke again, that stupid, dopey thing that Mickey loved so much. “Yeah,” he agreed, like it was the most genuine thing he’s ever said. “Yeah, you kind of are.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, flicking Ian in the knee. “Okay, knock it off with the soft shit.”

“I can teach you, you know.” It was casual, still, the way he said it, but Mickey could hear the interest there, an underlayer of excitement at the prospect of a mini lesson. “How to slow dance.”

“The fuck do I need to know that, for?”

“Don’t you want to do it right?” Ian asked him, with a raised brow. “ _You’re_ the one who wanted to do this, after all.”

“No,” Mickey corrected, “I wanted to figure out how it was gonna work with the stupid fucking boot in the way, that way we don’t look like total idiots. I didn’t want to spend the night twirling around in circles in the living room.”

It was Ian’s turn to roll his eyes, then, in that dramatic way that has his whole head moving with it, and he scoffed. “Put the fucking boot back on,” he ordered, setting his drink on the coffee table beside Mickey’s.

Mickey raised an eyebrow at him.

Ian sighed, before smiling in a way that was full of forced-innocence. “ _Please_ put the fucking boot back on?” he tried again, bemused. “Future husband of mine?”

Mickey snorted, because Ian was _ridiculous_ , but that didn’t mean his stomach and chest didn’t get all warm inside, either. _Future husband,_ Ian’s voice echoed, as he folded and reached to re-secure the boot in place. Husband. They were going to be _husbands._

“Whatever,” he muttered, tightening the buckles once more. He tossed the corn to the other end of the couch, but he could see Ian grinning from the corner of his eye. “But we’re not doin’ it to that sappy shit,” he warned, and shook his head. “You hear me? Not now, and not ever.”

Ian pushed himself to his feet, reaching down to pull Mickey up with him. “What do you consider _that sappy shit_ , exactly?”

“Dunno,” Mickey groused, letting himself be manhandled a bit. Ian dragged him back towards the open floor they’d cleared earlier, limping only a little because of the boot. “Put something on and I’ll let you know.”

And apparently Ian took that as a cue to _pick whatever the fuck he wanted,_ because once he had phone-in-hand again, slow, definitely sappy-sounding chords started flooding the room. He shot Mickey a nervous, almost hesitant look. “Too much?”

And there was a little hopeful gleam in his eyes and that small, excited little quirk to his lips, and Mickey didn’t have the heart to shoot it down. Heaving a breath, he felt all his resolve fade away as the lyrics started coming through. _Darlin’ just dive right in, follow my lead._

He fought the urge to laugh. It was so fitting. Sappy, but fitting.

Looking at Ian for a moment, hand half-outstretched, hopeful little smile playing on his lips, Mickey could almost feel a distant heat at the back of his eyes. _We were just kids when we fell in love,_ the music played on, _not knowing what it was._

And — shit. _Yeah._

He fought and failed to suppress a smile, as he accepted Ian’s hand. “Alright, Gallagher,” he murmured, letting himself be pulled into Ian’s space, close enough that he had to crane his neck to see him. They held each other’s gazes, blue into green, their future in sight. “Show me how to do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have no regrets
> 
> UPDATE: i have one regret, and it’s not titling this ‘follow my lead’
> 
> like seriously how did I miss that I literally _referenced that lyric in the fic_ god I’m so UPSET
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://gallavichsecurity.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
